Three words
by ClemB
Summary: Set at the end of Marionette. Small spoilers for season 3 mostly. One shot.


**No copyright infringement intended. **

This one-shot popped into my head this morning at work. This is unbeta-ed, written by a non-english native speaker. All mistakes are mine. Reviews are much appreciated.

Olivia got up, leaving Peter sitting on the rusty white chair. She managed to maintain her composure while the coroner spoke to her, but all she wanted to do was run. Run away from this life, that didn't felt hers anymore. Run away from him. From the pain.

He slowly made his way back to his car, where Walter was waiting for him. He'd promised him a milkshake; he thought inviting her would help. Help her forget, for a moment, what had happened with the other her. Her _alternate_. Help her forget and maybe, just maybe, guilt would leave him alone, for a few minutes.

She finally retreated in her car, where the tears could fall freely. Never had she felt so depressed. Alone. Abandoned by those she cherished the most. Rachel and Ella were too far way. Peter was too close, his mere presence suffocating her.

She noticed him in the rearview mirror, walking toward her car. Or perhaps toward his father's car, parked in front of hers. He caught her eyes, reflecting on the piece of glass. She quickly wiped the tears away and started the engine, escaping before he could reach her.

He sighed. What now? Would she ever get past it? Would he? He knew she was hurt. Deeply wounded. He'd lost her trust, her friendship, her camaraderie. Had he lost her love, too? He couldn't forgive himself, for not seeing it. _Her_. Saying love was blind was too easy. He should have known. He should have felt it, _in his guts_. Maybe Olivia was right. He should have trusted his instinct, screaming at him that something wasn't right with _her_. He chose to ignore the nagging feeling that _she_ was too different. That _she_ was wrong. And now he was going to pay for it.

She drove away from the house without a single glance backward. She knew she'd see him, watching her disappear. She couldn't look into his eyes, and see him look at _her_. She knew he was hurting, too. She could see it, with his red rimmed eyes, the dark circles under them a clue that he'd been sleeping as much as she had. She knew he probably felt some guilt, shame, even. She knew it. She knew the facts. She just couldn't process what had happened. How could he let that happen? Was she just a shell to him? Didn't she mean anything more?

She pondered wether to simply grab the bottle of whiskey waiting for her at her place, or go to the bar, delaying the inevitable come back to her apartment. She chose the later. As the sweet amber liquid went down her throat, she hesitated calling Astrid. Maybe they could have a girl talk. Maybe she could learn some more about _her_. About how she could so easily deceive them. Maybe, if she could understand the facts better, she could try to move on. Forgive Walter, for liking the patient _her _better. Forgive Broyles, for trusting _her_ with the job. Forgive Astrid, for not seeing the dupery. Forgive Peter, for not knowing her enough to be able to tell the right her from the wrong _her_. Forgive him for not loving her, but _her_.

Walter was giddy, his blood pumped with sugar, his babbling unceasing. He didn't notice the change in his son's demeanor. The hunched shoulders. The crease on his brow. The smile not reaching his eyes. Peter liked it better that way. He was feeling miserable enough without his father interfering in his relationship with Olivia. If there was any to salvage.

He dropped his father to their house, heading to the local bar. A milkshake wasn't strong enough to numb the pain. After his third double, he reached for his phone in his pocket. His fingers hovered over the screen, hesitant. The phone ended on the bar countertop, the lighted screen turning black after a few seconds. What could he say to her? What good would it do? He knew she was hurt. Deeply. Because of him. Because of _her_. To say he didn't know her well enough to tell the difference between them would be lying. He did notice. He was warming to a new Olivia, less burdened, happier. He accepted the changes, because he loved her. He was naive enough to believe their new relationship was making her different.

Her cellphone vibrated in her pocket, pulling her out of her reverie. The screen read only three words. She didn't understand why he said those words to her the first time; a few days later, they took all their meaning. They couldn't make things better, it would have been too easy. They couldn't alleviate her pain, nor his guilt. But it was a start. _I'm sorry. _They would work this out, because they couldn't lose each other.


End file.
